Dysfunction as Heritage
by lye tea
Summary: Not all legacies are noble. Byakuya learns this the hard way. Series of semi-related oneshots. Byakuya/Rukia-ish with cameos of other pairings.
1. I : Inferno

**I. Inferno**

"_I come from a place whither I desire to return._"

Rukongai was an ugly place. Rumbled like a lion's belly and bleaker than betrayal, it was a site where the dead crawled on their white-peeled bones.

Rukia proudly flaunted her lawless hunger for the world to see.

She surprised him at their first meeting. Immediately, he regretted adopting her.

It had been a rash, reckless, and impossibly agonizing decision. Gone to hell and retrieved her from the poisonous pincers of a wasteland-keeper (she called him teacher). The Elders were furious. Grandfather was mutual, wryly amused (gone soft in his old age).

And so, burying a valley of doubt, Byakuya stole her from the Academy.

. . .

Rukia was deeply unhappy with him and morbidly aggravated. But she did not say (she never would). Despite the brave façade she fashioned, he still traced her bitterness to the source. Her confusion, apprehension, and fear. He knew them all, counted each one like petals on a flower.

Mute and uncertain, Rukia stared at him from across the table. It was their first meal together in the three months since she took his name. She couldn't fathom why he adopted her or what he wanted (expected) from her.

—_why am I here and why are you—_

He was not being intentionally cruel, wanted to explain—

Then all the years saturated him like a sudden storm with flashing teeth. Hisana will always have an unyielding hold over him. Sometimes, he wondered why he didn't resent her for it.

But for now, Byakuya kept his silence.

. . .

Today, she will grind him to dust. Victoriously, she will tower over him and smile in that elusive, discreet way of hers. And she will say _I've got you_.

However, today was not there yet.

Exasperated, Rukia sighed and grudgingly returned to her calligraphy.

. . .

It's because—it must be—she looks so much like her.

It's sick (must be it). It's an unwanted, mistaken gesture of projected sacrifice.

_He thinks he's doing her a favor…like a sort…_

(short)of savior

_...She's really distressed….oh, see that?—how sad._

. . .

She asked him who was the woman in the painting and why does she look just like me?

Meeting her gaze, he parried her confrontation.

"Have you finished your lessons?"

Blushing, Rukia murmured no and excused herself.

. . .

Adamant, Byakuya mildly suggested to Ukitake to keep her from attaining a seated position. Only (he gripped the pen harder) the comment erupted as a brusque order. Surprised, Ukitake nonetheless agreed.

Byakuya heard their secret thoughts, what they suspect and have prematurely conjectured as some symptom of vast, uncharted grief. _He's gone mad_. The objections to her adoption and subsequent graduation and instatement as a shinigami transcended the boundaries of clan. Of family, of—

"Blood is thicker than water. But in your case, I really do wonder," Ukitake said cryptically.

"She is not ready to take on such a great responsibility," Byakuya continued. "She has much to learn."

"Don't you think you're being a bit overprotective? She deserves at least a fourth seat. Despite not having finished her courses at the academy, she is formidable in kidou."

"I have given you my opinion. Ultimately the decision, of course, is yours to make."

Hesitant but resolved, Ukitake said no more on the subject. He knew when to let sleeping dragons lie. But they, like all misshapen desires and coiled beasts, will eventually rebel.

All in good time.

. . .

He seldom interacted with her. He was a captain, after all, and the house was immense (strangled with ghosts). On the rare occasions that they spoke, she perpetually seemed afraid, diffident. So, he would let her go after the customary inquiries were exchanged.

Watching her hurry away, he'd be hit by a sudden deluge of annoyance. He could never figure out why.

And his strange irritation would flare up again, twice as deadly, whenever she snuck out to meet her childhood friend. The red-headed one. He was to blame.

. . .

Byakuya waited for her to go, to retreat and dissipate into the oblivion of cell phones and video games. Rukia waved goodbye, unable to hide her grin. Her zanpakutou twitched from excitement. Back rigid and heart was taut, she passed through the portal.

Tonight, she will enter the human realm for the first time since her death.

The manor will be quiet again and somehow even lonelier.


	2. II : Bequest

**A/N: **I have no idea what's going on either. This is just a bunch of random, jumbled thoughts in my head.

* * *

**II. Bequest**

When Hisana died, she injected him with grief and the rotting memento of her guilt.

Guilt had consumed her, interred her while manacled (gasping), and ultimately pinched her out. Guilt was a voracious lover, insatiable, and pleaded to be hung. Fucked harder than anything else and _fuck_—

(sans remorse)

—_oh fuck, what now?—_

It bit back with a curse. Between the fangs.

In the festering recess crypts of his mind (the lacuna oxidized), a scene was trapped on rewind. Hisana was dying, and he was gutted.

Pale and trembling, she asked him one final request.

(Last Rites: Only The Dead Comes To Claim)

She had grown frail and finely aged with the sickness. Spidery lines traversed her forehead. Her brows met in sorrow, in regret. Once more, she was ridden with guilt. Crippled, Hisana surrendered at last. But she remained resilient, almost defiant.

In this moment, they were reversed. Like he was ill (sick still, forever will). And she was strong, shouldering them both.

Byakuya agreed. He will find the other.

. . .

Rukia returned from the living in a daze—_to die a second time_. Energy fading, she was a puppet with its strings shorn short (of manipulation, he was familiar). Something had happened in the human world. Made her so _unnaturally_ upset.

Her sentiments (resentment) toward humans was not uncommon, was not empty. They were breathing and she, well—like him—had already kissed the guillotine.

He thought of questioning her but refrained in the end. An interrogation would only rupture in a dizzy front-line assault. It wasn't a mistake he was willing to make (not a second time). And so, they ignored each other for weeks. This—the practice, the automatic plunge—had become ritualistic. Caustic: like inhaling metallic, acrid dust in the heart of a desert-winter.

But by the fifth week, Byakuya had endured enough of her foolishness. Resolved, he rapped on her door. He will smother an answer out of her.

She did not respond.

"Rukia," he said.

Nothing.

He tried again, one-two-three times more. In rapid succession, he confronted a high, blank wall.

She had shut herself, drugged on an emancipation subverted.

_Coldness, you see, is measured in reciprocity. Effective only when there are two at play. _

. . .

Kaien was a good man.

Valorous, selfless, and eternally damned. He was the threadbare portrait of what an older brother should be. An ugly reminder of what all the others lacked. For that, Byakuya hated him.

. . .

Unremitting in her praise, love, adoration, one and all, Rukia zeroed in on the meaning of _hero worship_.

Byakuya observed her training with Kaien. Her lieutenant was a tyrant, formidable in his pandemonium. But Rukia took all his brutality in and honed the shards into a sleek, cool blade. She was gaining speed, catching a storm.

"Good! Watch carefully, Rukia. Your zanpakutou is not an outsider. It must move _with you_."

"Yes, sir!"

Kaien slashed and hacked with a grace beyond him. Fairylike, he practically danced.

"Rukia!"

Sprawled in the dust, she vomited lungs.

For a tiny brief second, Byakuya felt his body lean forward, reaching—almost yet not quite—toward her. And then, the strangeness (seizure) ceased, and he was released.

Scooping her up, Kaien helped her stand. "Rukia, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Sorry, I…I wasn't prepared. I apologize."

"It's okay. We'll try again. You swung too wide, that's why you couldn't block my attack."

They picked up from where she failed. This time, she easily evaded the blow.

Satisfied, Byakuya left. She had improved.

(And he'd been usurped.)

. . .

Happiness was a hallucination overthrown. Something feeble, unpredictable. From its make-believe perch, it mocked.

Long ago, he used to think it possible.

Quelled and sealed, happiness disintegrated into an unreal distraction. In the jungle of hollow bones and mutilated gods, it will ferment. _This so-spoke as purgatory._

"Upholding order and maintain the law. They are the two principles a noble must abide."

Nodding, Rukia swallowed hard.

. . .

Yesterday, he taught her temperance.

Today, he instructed her on honor.

Tomorrow, he will instill her with sacrifice.

. . .

Kaien didn't like him, and Byakuya wasn't oblivious. So, when Kaien visited him at the Sixth Division, Byakuya was unpleasantly amazed.

"I'm here to talk to you about Rukia," Kaien stated.

Plain, loutish, minus the finesse of an artful preamble. Unraveled like a gaunt, blunt declaration of war. Byakuya narrowed his eyes just slightly and let his contempt slip through to a marginal degree.

Amused by the man's audacity, Byakuya decided to humor him. "I am inclined to have you removed, lieutenant. But I'm sure even that won't stop you."

"Hell yeah, it won't. You really are the worst brother. You have no right to call her a sister."

"You are correct—she is not. I merely gave her my name."

Exploding in anger (guts puckering, saluting for combat), Kaien fired off his lecture. He'd been prepared, knew this was coming. Byakuya was a pompous little shit, deserving a beating. Maybe two. But now:

(sweat beads  
inching—  
down)

Kaien hesitated. It didn't seem like such a fantastic idea. Only, retrospection was for the blind, the pained.

"She's lived with you for years. Yet, you don't know a thing about her. Do you know what she thinks of you? She's _terrified_ of you. She thinks she's constantly disappointing you. She thinks you despise her. But you don't seem to care."

"Was that all?"

_No. _"Yes."

Kaien started for the door, affording one final glance back. Byakuya was inscrutable. A fortress of marble. Kaien shook his head. It really wasn't his business, he supposed.

Except—

_What is she to you?_  
A promise: nothing more.

Two weeks later, Kaien was dead. Rukia killed (sanctified) him, or so the official report said.

. . .

Kaien's death soon became public news (fodder for the gossips). And Rukia acquired the habit of crying late into the night. She had inherited the tenor of guilt from her sister.

Across the manor, Byakuya heard her unwind in long, guttural aches. Low-pitched and raw, her sobbing rippled in currents. Like the aged brine at the bottom of an oak barrel, the salty smell of her tears inundated the house, sprawling over halls and courtyards.

Byakuya knew he should say something to her. He was a master at mourning. But solace was not his forte. And he wasn't really her brother.

Not now, not ever.


	3. III : Causality

**III. Causality**

They did not talk again after The Incident. She simply, politely avoided him.

When they crossed by each other on the off-shot chance, he would say something brief. Something curt. He was always icy and reserved.

And so, she learned to become terse like him – cold too. But once in a while, Rukia allowed herself to thaw.

Hugging Renji, she said goodbye.

"I'll be back soon. And when I come back, I'm gonna beat you."

_It'll be a cold day in hell before she outmaneuvered him. _Ruffling her unruly hair, Renji grinned (missed her already).

In the morning, Byakuya found a farewell note. Short, succinct, it informed him of what he already knew.

. . .

Rukia awaited execution with an equanimity even he could envy.

Every morning, Byakuya would find himself walking toward the execution grounds. And always, he would stop abruptly and turn around.

Not once did he visit her. She wouldn't expect him to.

. . .

Renji was strong but foolish. Endured the onslaught of quaking mountains with the agile grace that came only after decades of dodging beatings. But he'd chosen an opponent who could obliterate him in the count of a heartbeat. So, when Byakuya defeated his lieutenant (sans remorse), he was proud. Renji learned well, took loyalty (absurdity) to heart.

But Rukia wasn't Renji's anymore. And she had to die – it was only right. He will see to that.

. . .

The human's oration was rather quaint. A misdefined explication on the duty of brotherhood aimed to dissuade him. Byakuya was not amused.

It was insulting. Infuriating.

More and more, he liked the poetry of a worthwhile massacre.

The human said he didn't understand, couldn't fathom why he – her brother – would agree to execute her. Would deal the death-blow personally.

_You must really hate her…_

Byakuya saw the indignation, the pissed-coarse violence that naturally accompanied rage. He was mildly amazed. The human truly intended to die for her sake. Mortal-bound, flexible, and fickle. The human's resolution to save Rukia bordered on the ridiculous. An obligation he had no right to claim, a devotion he was deluded to own.

And so, Byakuya will slash him wide and bitter – splinter his entrails. He will die undignified and hideous. Rukia was (forever) beyond his reach, his pathetic (human) emotions and desperation.

Savage, Ichigo volleyed back with a scream.

Precise, apropos: pierced through the heart.

. . .

A roar of thunder and no more.

The clash of steel grated his ears. Byakuya tasted the blaze of putrefaction in reverse, felt the animalistic singing and then, all-of-a-sudden, the world went still.

Quiet down (dead down).

In the cruelty of any finale's whiteout, the gory details always lingered just below the skin. They waited to sink in the toxins.

Below his left rib, a shallow ache gnawed.

_There_. Where Gin had (seemed like centuries ago) impaled him. The point (tippy-slip of the blade) stung like the residual memory of animus and treachery. He had abandoned her in the end, when she needed him most. Prepared to witness her die, he'd already paid Hisana the requisite respects.

Byakuya woke up with a start.

He was lying in bed, bandaged and torn apart.

But alive.

At war's end, there were no victors: only the miasmic, godless, bare-soul survivors. Dry and malarial, double-dosed, burgeoning out from a fresh bought comatose. He is crimson-sore (throat is parched).

She gave him water. Constant, Rukia trailed him like a cursed shadow.

"I'm fine. You should rest," he told her.

She refused. Instead, blinking her enormous eyes, she cried.

"Rukia, what's—" the pain robbed him of air.

"Nii-sama! Please don't…move. Captain Unohana said your injuries are severe."

He tried to speak but that metamorphosed into a cough. Annoyed at his weakness (his human infirmity), Byakuya wondered if this was what Ukitake endured daily.

"We are all injured. Suffering is a natural casualty and causality of war," he said calmly.

She slipped her little hand into his. Tense, a challenge, he first thought. But then he realized: this was Rukia. She didn't know the meaning of hidden games or whiskery wiles. And so, he brought her hand to rest against his heart. She didn't flinch, retract. She simply let him.

It was comforting. Strange – like the edges of a faint memento that had once dissolved and now reappeared.

. . .

Seireitei, post the harsh punishment of a veiled aftermath, will recover. It was designed that way, to be indestructible and resilient.

But shinigami were not. Even gods had to die.

Outside his temporary window (Byakuya loathed the term "convalescent"), Renji and the ryoka were yelling to drown the dead. It sounded like an incantation, beginning with _where_ and ending with _Rukia_.

He drifted back to sleep.

Two hours later, Unohana found him resting peacefully. It's been over a century since she saw him this serene. _Almost_ sweet.

. . .

Drenched in pale gray light, Rukia resembled a statue. A small, speciously frail statuette, carved not of marble but of faint jade. Shoulders slumped, she'd fallen asleep during her vigil. He smiled just a bit. She hadn't moved at all. Really, it was quite unnecessary.

Sitting up, Byakuya draped a shawl around her shoulders. She had grown quite thin. He could feel the bones poking through her skin.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, he quietly said: "I am sorry, Rukia. I will try harder."

– For all that he did and did not do.

Only, some oaths were easier to keep (understand) than others. But Byakuya always kept his promises. He couldn't make up for missed time, for misplaced intentions, for a million misguided actions. And he'd be an idiot to think he could. Nonetheless, he could still try.

Somehow, just off, _along the ashen shores stopped to rest._

And Rukia knew too – already forgiven him.

He looked over at her. She had stopped shivering.


	4. IV : Five Times

**A/N: **For 5_times on LJ. And since I'm really bad at chronology and plot and all that good stuff, this fic is more like an amalgamation of one-shots that are sort of related to each other, challenges, random interjections, etc.

* * *

**IV. Five Times Rukia Asked Byakuya about Hisana**

**1.**

There was a woman with her face.

Maybe a little older, more serene, and slightly frayed (at the edges, the painting had started to wilt). But like looking into a mirror—it was unnerving, creepy. Like being unable to escape the premonition of a forced resurrection.

"Who is she?"

The maid pretended not to hear.

"Hey, I asked you: who is she?"

The maid raises her head, shifty eyes and a stealthy reconnaissance (no one at the door). "That woman—"

"Is none of your concern. Leave."

Startled, Rukia turned around. She fought the inclination to cringe, as if she'd been caught looting nine-day old corpses for fillings. The maid threw her a sympathetic look. A slight shake of the head, a glossed over, tongue-bit, wayward warning.

Staggering, her anxiety tallied up.

"Byakuya nii-sama."

Dull and harrowed, Rukia said his name like dispelling a plague. She was acting timid, peculiar for her (he'd seen her fight). A bird with its wing-tips cauterized.

"Who is she?" she blurted out.

"My wife," he answered.

As if it was that simple.

**2.**

After the war, Byakuya took her to Hisana's grave.

Dutiful, Rukia followed him past miles of unrequited queries and wrongs. A ramrod back and the wrenching scent of plums in frost. Her mind was a loop running on the granular fuel of déjà vu. Somewhere, sometime, she's been here before (as someone else).

The grave was unmarked, unadorned, and tarnished with a white brilliance that couldn't be real.

And here (an imposter) Rukia calmly waited for him to lay down flowers and light the incense. Thick and musky, the smoke flew into a sterile, vertical arrow. A message—_prayer_—she thought.

In silence, she stared at the tomb. Placid, eerie. This was a place that begged to be forgotten.

Surreptitious, Rukia stole a glimpse at her brother. His expression hadn't changed. A talent for detachment (not like the beating nausea encasing her own heart).

But when he lit the second stick of incense, she noticed a momentary trembling in his hand. Ephemeral, like the timing of a single raindrop trapped in a throaty tempest—cried out and yearned to live. Swift, it was gone. She half-doubted it had been there at all.

"What was she like?"

(in the end)

_And did she love me?_

(more than you)

**3. **

In dashes and ellipses, Rukia wrote out her name.

It was Byakuya's idea (mandate) to make a will. And so, she drafted an outline of the basics.

To Renji: Her collection of Chappy sunglasses, because he's always hated them and will love her for the joke.

To Ichigo, if he outlives her: Her drawings, which she kept to chronicle the various crossing of their lives (a funny thing called fate).

As for her brother, she supposed all the jewelry and miscellaneous heirlooms she received would revert back to him. Naturally.

Feeling the slippery texture of her kimono, Rukia wondered how many countless women had worn this before her. How many bodies had pressed against the silk—grazed their skin—had sighed their last breath (sunk by gold).

_When my sister died…_

She wanted to ask but reeled in her curiosity. It was too personal, too contaminated, a subject to be breached.

Hisana passed away suddenly, a vision disfigured by effacement. And she took every slice of her existence (relinquished him nothing).

But Rukia knew that when _she_ dies, she will want it to be beautiful. Quick, painless, and free from the afflictions that lured in her sister. There will be no room for error, the finite folly of underestimation. She'll be ready.

And she will leave a small part of herself behind.

Because she's nothing like her sister—she told him so.

**4.**

On a passing whim, he accompanied her to Rukongai. Foisting his lieutenant with the unfinished reports, Byakuya figured he'd try this phenomenon called "family-bonding." (Ukitake advocated such strange beliefs.)

The day before, Rukia asked him how he met Hisana. And he gave her the pithy version. And so, by reciprocation (as was only just), she showed him where she grew up, defied death and lived to tell the tale.

"This is where I met Renji."

She pointed to a filthy alley. Byakuya resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose.

"That's where we first saw a shinigami."

In the feeble mid-morning light, Rukia almost looked nostalgic.

"And this place?"

They stopped before the dingy porch of an old house. Grimy and soot-sifted, the walls had the pallor of a lingering asphyxiation. A familiar sorrow and burden.

Shrugging, Rukia walked ahead. "An orphanage," she muttered.

**5.**

Ginrei raised his cup in honor of her, _of them_. Somber and dignified, he declared her married. Officialized, rescued from unbearable disgrace (disdain), she was now—damn, Rukia didn't want to say it.

Not quite.

"Nii-sama, was Hisana onee-sama this…"

"Nervous?"

Frowning, Rukia quickly amended, "_Exhausted._"

"No. But that was because she was already at peace."

(Resigned, Hisana had preemptively allowed herself to be stifled. He had given her no choice.)

"She doesn't seem too happy." Rukia nodded toward their cousin, receiving a faint smile in response.

"Her husband is an idiot," Byakuya explained dryly.

"Why did you let her marry him?"

"Because she wanted to."

_Because the alternative was so much worse._

"But—"

He gripped her arm and stared at her hard, cold. His eyes blazed. Foreboding, like the instant when a steel blade penetrated the flat surface of a pool.

"Rukia, marriage for the nobility serves to cement bloodlines. Once made, it cannot be voided."

And then, she realized why she didn't have a noose tied around her own neck.

Byakuya would never let her be sacrificed.

(He'd rather kill her himself.)


	5. V : Betrayal

**V. Betrayal**

Sometimes, when he looked at her, she wasn't sure which of them appeared. And always, for a quick, sparse second, Rukia thought she detected a twinge of enormous sadness—nearly prostrate, tearing out.

He was blind.

There were differences. Subtle, hinted and obscured. But they were undeniably there (subterfuge was a faithless lover to be pinned).

Firmly, she told him: that she and her were not the same. That Hisana was here-taken and forever-kept.

"Nii-sama," she tried again. "Please stop."

_It's just not right_.

He didn't answer, kissed her breathless instead.

_Silence is the music of the muses. _

And they were too used to this charade to stop. A linchpin: it held them in place.

Overcome and receding, she thought back to yesterdays. It was more bearable this way.

. . .

A decade or so after the adoption (she lost track of the years) came the pivotal point. Insidious and exquisite but the moment wasn't something to be noted. Not worth the while.

One evening, late into winter and drinking the usual postprandial tea (they both preferred it bitter and sharp), everything changed.

Byakuya asked her if she knew how to dance. Rukia shook her head, thinking she'd unpardonably disappointed him—yet again. And he was, however slight (was careful not to show it).

"Why, Nii-sama? Is it something you wish for me to learn?"

He frowned. "No. I was only curious."

Later, she learned that the former lady of the house had been an accomplished dancer. Beautiful, graceful, and all-too-much _perfect_. But Rukia immediately remembered that Hisana had prematurely died. And _then_ remembered why she was here—

in her place.

. . .

Rukia deified him, feared and admired him. He wasn't oblivious to the gossip, to the side-cast, apprehensive glances and snide remarks. Immune but not ignorant. He kept a mental tab on them, stored away for future retaliation—prophesied to come.

The rumors bothered her too though she fastidiously hid her thoughts. Smiling, she trained harder, fought stronger, did everything to avoid the issue (and him).

Byakuya understood. It wasn't in her nature otherwise. But still, he wished she would simply come to him rather than berating herself (sickening unto death) over the what-ifs.

So for now, he let it be.

. . .

The sixth seat of the eleventh division shot him a look to kill. Rarely did he face hatred in its purity. Intrigued, Byakuya inquired about the boy.

"Oh, Renji-kun?" As if on cue, Ichimaru Gin smiled. "He used ta be in Captain Aizen's division, recently got transferred ta the eleventh. Says he likes ta fight. And somethin' 'bout an old score ta settle."

"I see."

"By the by, ya know what they say." Gin's grin widened. "Curiosity will kill the cat."

. . .

Renji might not have been too bright and a tad too rash, but he was realistic.

He knew his limits whereas others thought themselves godlike.

Above, Ikkaku cackled and beat him bloody like an avenging messenger. "What's the matter, Abarai? I thought you liked pushing yourself."

"Shut up and come at me."

"Gladly."

Ikakku swung his sword.

Perilous: Renji stood, ready to be bludgeoned and imagined what could have been.

. . .

On dulcet, song-woven nights, she visited him. Behind the barracks of the eleventh division (long gone to sleep) they were alone and free. Impervious to outsiders, _to her brother_, Renji could be open with her like it had been—like it should.

Fervent, Rukia brought him her woes and tribulations and the vanquished underbellies of herself. Nestled in the crook of Renji's arm, she played with the unruly wisps of his hair, thinking how beautiful he could be.

And how chaste, almost brotherly, his kisses were. Fluttering in episodic bursts, they grazed her skin with needled warmth. In the morning, his touches were fated to fade—like nothing had ever happened. And when they passed by each other again (daylight stinging) he would avert his eyes and she would escape in a voiceless regret.

Memory was fleeting, a hushed and cheating tragedy. It moved in circular, tangent strokes.

. . .

In her cell, she reflected on the little, insignificant, and bygone moments she and Renji (and her brother) shared.

Second by second, gritty and unabashed, everything became immobilized.

"This is the last time we will speak."

He was serious (Byakuya always was). And this, in that appalling way typical of all noble men, was meant as farewell.

Trailing after, on the border of dismay and amazement, Renji gaped at her with shredded eyes. But he's your brother-he can't just-

Rukia dueled against the desire to say _I told you so_.

In her room, he helped her forget her imprisonment and what had happened and the present void between them. Byakuya was nothing less than excellent at everything he did.

. . .

Her limbs were stiff and unyielding, and he must coax her out. Byakuya was patient with her, preservering and—

Like a spine-wrenched, heartfelt betrayal.

They fell, against one another, _somehow right_. Pieces of a puzzle (lost and found) soldered together. Helpless, she watched as Renji disappeared.

. . .

Life was a fountain of false impressions, spouting out axioms and rules (touting its mercurial trust). Life was deceitful, evil in the prime, and Rukia had long since given up on solving its mysteries.

And so, locked in her lonely chasm, she debated their charms.

Renji was her first.

And now, Byakuya was her only.

(But not her last.)


	6. VI : One Sentence

**VI. One Sentence**

_01. Motion_

They move in symmetry, a little at a time, and all very furious—all the while she simply thinks: this isn't right.

_02. Cool_

Her hands are always icy (like his heart), a hundred degrees below freezing and still raging harsher.

_03. Young_

She is too young, Byakuya thinks, too young and too naïve and too _Rukia_ to the bone.

_04. Last_

Rukia is used to being last, the last to choose (be chosen)—last to die—but now, she wishes that she really is his last.

_05. Wrong_

Incest is vile and hideous and altogether wrong (they're not _exactly_ related).

06. Gentle

Gentle pleasantries come naturally to him (called birthright), but she isn't born a Kuchiki.

_07. One_

She embeds this trite, tart problem deep inside: that she isn't the first one, the only one, the one, one-one.

_08. Thousand_

A thousand years is far too long for a dead relationship, especially one that still contains her sister's ghost tightly wedged in between.

_09. King_

Sometimes, she imagines him as a king, because only a king act that indifferent.

_10. Learn_

Distance, he learns, is imperative and bitter and cruelly righteous (when it comes to her).

_11. Blur_

Tonight, he is nothing but a blur tipping down scales as she dreams and lies awake, deathly starved.

_12. Wait_

She realizes that waiting is eternity plus one plus a baleful more.

_13. Change_

Seasons change—as do people and dead people and half-dead people—and Rukia can't stand how dramatically he has changed.

_14. Command_

Responsibility is a weighted word (a heavy burden) and Rukia seethes at the thought of how odiously responsible he orders her to be.

_15. Hold_

Byakuya holds her close and whispers childish enchantments to her: that she is safe, she is well, is not-sick-free from here on out.

_16. Need_

When they are together, there is love and need and hate (but mostly hate).

_17. Vision_

She and he and their entire messy, nervous somethingness is blind, fails to realize that this is not a fairytale—that this is all too faked real.

_18. Attention_

Attention screams murder, which she knows (and he knows) is what he secretly, terribly wants.

_19. Soul_

Rukia soon understands that souls can hurt (eternally) and souls can love (rarely), but souls cannot hurt and love without expecting to be smothered out.

_20. Picture_

Ichigo took a photo of her yesterday, and today—strange—Byakuya is more callous than usual.

_21. Fool_

She fools herself to think that he truly, really, sincere-to-god is her brother.

_22. Mad_

Her sister had gone crazy and now is dead and Rukia will soon follow and alone he will be (how it's supposed to be).

_23. Child_

Hisana promised him a child and she delivered—one fully grown.

_24. Now_

A moment ago she was nothing, now she is something, and a moment later she will again be nothing.

_25. Shadow_

When she passed, she consumed herself, and all he could do was sigh and remember the last time this happened with her sister's shadow centuries ago.

_26. Goodbye_

The word "goodbye" scathes and sticks on the roof of her mouth, much like their hurried, furtive, sorta-sordid gestures (it really has been too long).

_27. Hide_

They act as if they're in a game with him trying to crawl up her achy spine and her grimacing back with what they both know as he won't.

_28. Fortunate_

Hisana was most unfortunate while Rukia is most fortunate, and Byakuya thinks (bad of him) that it's better this way: Rukia is more defiant against suffering.

_29. Safe_

Safe, Rukia discovers, is just an absurd word because no matter what he says, she cannot feel at peace around him.

_30. Ghost_

Normalcy is impossible not because she married her dead sister's husband but because denial is an all-too-powerful lover.

_31. Book_

When she wakes up screaming at corpses, he simply continues reading (she wouldn't want it otherwise).

_32. Eye_

Byakuya comments that her eyes are strangely ashy and grey and darting (and vivid and lively and everything he cannot say).

_33. Never_

Never is endless as are his demands.

_34. Sing_

Her voice is soft and low, and sometimes, he imagines she is singing to him instead of the other.

_35. Sudden_

He can be suddenly there, but he likes being suddenly gone more—it's less excruciating for both of them.

_36. Stop_

"Stop," she orders and pushes him away (please lie, just once more).

_37. Time_

Time kills in an unruly manner, uncouth and crude, and that is why Byakuya despises it for ending her (when it was his duty all along).

_38. Wash_

On accident, he saw her coming out of the bath and wondered if her skin tasted salty or sweet or an erosive collision of bitterness.

_39. Torn_

He is torn between no-way-out, but she refuses to forfeit.

_40. History_

History is never accepting, just like how their liaisons can never be accepted.

_41. Power_

Power is unforgiving, is infinite, is the only thing he has over her.

_42. Brother_

At least he never pretended to be her brother.

_43. God_

He can play god as often, as quick, as clever as he wants—until god decides to inflict reprisal and then, he is reduced to mourning another wife.

_44. Wall_

Propriety constructs a wall that neither of them can breach (one that Byakuya is resolute in destroying).

_45. Naked_

Rukia gives him her heart naked and blank: "Take it, now, before he does."

_46. Drive_

She has no strength, no resistance, and so he assaults without qualms (she always surrenders in the end).

_47. Harm_

He will never let her come to harm, but danger is something innate from within (from him).

_48. Precious_

She is precious to him only when she is no more.

_49. Hunger_

He kisses her, hungry and intensified by a thousand electrified pulses, and she closes her eyes and thinks it's all a flawless, rehearsed paly.

_50. Believe_

Rukia does not believe he feels guilt (repentance is a sham) and so, he pours every one of his regrets into her.


	7. VII : Contrition

**VII. Contrition**

Almost immediately, she forgave her brother. For trying (_swearing_ and determined) to kill her—_and_ _Ichigo_. For half a century of wrongs and slights, however devoid of malice and intent.

She even forgave him for being the worst brother in history, a fact he very well knew.

It wasn't his mistreatment, his indifference. It wasn't her humiliation, the feeling of inadequacy or presumption—_preemption_. It was…nothing in particular. Byakuya simply felt nothing toward her other than a powerful, steadfast, and inexplicable sense of obligation.

A burden, albeit light, is a burden nonetheless.

And she was careful (self-loathing) enough not to forget it.

. . .

Perhaps it was merely his personality (she doubted it). Or maybe it was an inherent weakness within her. Either way, she never did deduce why he refused to look at her during all those years.

And then, everything changed that fateless, heartless day.

. . .

It bothered her.

Extremely.

Inexorable to the point that she could barely concentrate on anything else.

Rukia looked at her captain and cast the vagrant thought aside as nothing. Captain Ukitake was so kind and wonderful and _truly_ a magnificent…something. Intense, she studied him, fitting together the mismatched and miscellaneous shapes. But still, she couldn't figure out what he was (to her and all of them).

"Something on your mind?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me what Nii-sama was like as a child."

Ukitake raised a skeptical brow.

"I heard the rumors," she hastily added.

. . .

Eventually, she contemplated conceding defeat and asking him directly. But Rukia then remember that nothing was simple when it came to her brother. And so, she reigned in her tongue.

. . .

She was grateful that Renji wasn't the type to hold grudges. Otherwise, the days after her near-execution and his almost-manslaughter would've been agonizing. But Renji shrugged the whole unpleasant business off and went about his duties like nothing had happened (still _glorified_ his captain).

And even Ichigo seemed to have moved on without a second thought, a partial glance back. The fluttering beats of unresolved hesitancy and ten thousand questions left hovering in the empty wake.

She was glad his wounds healed up nicely ("see how neat the stitches are?" Inoue smiled) and that he wasn't plagued by pain.

Renji and Ichigo were masters at forgive and forget. And for that, she loved them both. Even if they might not have been completely voluntary.

Dauntless and blithe, they charged head-on, heel-flying.

. . .

It unsettled her, horrified and paralyzed her with venom tasting of honey and lilacs.

Nervously, Rukia scooped up the bouquet from her bed and set it aside.

For the past month, purple flowers greeted her every evening after she returned from work. Their petals matched the color of her eyes. Beautiful and somewhat understated. There was no note (no need).

_Well, at least you know he's trying_.

Less of an apology and more like an apologetic. Constant and devotional (almost votive).

. . .

He will never admit his guilt in words. But he showed it in a thousand other ways.


	8. VIII : Shamisen

**VIII. ****Shamisen**

Her fingers were seditious (mind lacked the proper will).

Rukia did not pluck with the delicacy of a spring pond. She attacked and defaced silk strings, wielding the _bachi _like another blade. Once more: the grating of ivory against wood.

For someone so graceful in war, she was surprisingly bad at music.

And dance.

And art.

Byakuya was tempted to stop her before she finished them both, but then he noticed her smile. Frustrated, _furious_, yet—

She was adamant on taming the damned thing. And he would've persuaded her to abandon a lost cause, but this was a matter of personal accomplishment (pride). So, pouring her a cup of tea, Byakuya let her continue.

Over a century later, Rukia still had not improved.

"How's that, Nii-sama?" she asked.

"Better," he lied.

At least she seemed happy—sort of.


	9. IX : Two Part, Three Whole

Byakuya/Hisana mostly because this is made-up backstory like whoa.

And guys, I have to confess something. I'm getting lazy, which translates to I've run out of ideas. So I'd really appreciate it if you could suggest scenarios, prompts, whatever. Otherwise, I don't see this fic being updated much…

* * *

**IX. Two Part, Three Whole**

_wine on summer night  
two part, three whole, full of none  
iced is dew on blade_

His eyes must be playing a trick on him.

_Hisana_, he almost reached for her. Stopped short.

No. This girl was obviously not his wife. She was too young (and dirty) and besides, Hisana was safe at home. There was no way she would be here, on this bridge, in Rukongai. Back again to the place she spent years to escape.

Confident, Byakuya left without another passing (fanciful) thought. And by the time he caught up with the rest of his division, he'd completely forgotten the girl.

The one with strange violet eyes and dark hair. Who so greatly resembled his—

"My wife is well," Byakuya answers.

Only, it sounded like a reprimand, and his subordinate was smart enough not to inquire further.

...

Hisana was like an arcane jewel that quivered at the hand of polish. Shivered at his touch. Natural (_delicate_, he reminded himself) and something to be cherished. He was so fortunate to be married to her.

"I hope your day was well, Byakuya-sama," said his wife.

"It was."

Uncanny. In this light, he could've sworn—impossible.

They resumed dinner, and Byakuya permanently banished the unfinished suspicion.

...

"You were alone."

Licking her lips, Hisana nodded. _Yes, no one else._

...

On the rare days he wasn't bombarded with either shinigami duties or overseeing the clan—dissent was ever popular and on the rise—Byakuya found himself drifting into Rukongai. Each time, he infiltrated deeper, stepping into the filthy streets of the 68th, the 72nd, the 75th, and finally the 78th.

Perfunctory, automatic and strung-up. Quickly, he scanned the crowds for something amiss (someone astray). From the corner of his eye, he saw someone being decapitated.

Anguish.

Screaming in near perfect pitch (his last shriek was a note too high).

Byakuya continued his journey to nowhere. Disgusted and satisfied. _So this was Rukongai._

...

Hisana was more timid than normal tonight, practically jumped out her skin when he bent down to kiss her.

"Byakuya-sama," she murmured. "I need to tell you—"

He kissed her. "Later."

Because they had an eternity to talk, to divulge. But only an hour left before Ginrei stormed in, demanding for those (unfinished) reports.

...

Very, dreary, _dreadfully_ close she came to being exposed. Again, he asked her about her history, prodding dangerous skeletons that she had been _so sure_ were cremated. But she was good at evading his scrutiny.

And so, Hisana felt the tension gradually alleviate. Byakuya left, sufficiently placated (swallowed her lies). For now, her awful secret was safe.

...

She tapped her foot in line with the rhythm. Her ankle was slender, refined, like glass shells. He could encircle it with his hand. And as she sang to match the melody, his heart twitched. Stabbed by a needle through the pinhole of jade buttons.

Yawning, Hisana stretched her limbs, snuggling against him. He could feel her shivering (she never fared well in winter). She had grown thinner, her bones brittle and hollow like dried twigs. Her pallor was whiter, bleaker than before. Sickly, that's what she looked.

"Are you all right?" he said.

"Yes, Byakuya-sama. I'm fine."

"You are sure."

_Thus began the inquisition._

"Yes. Please don't worry about me."

A cough and a shudder.

"I'm fine," she repeated.

...

Pressing a hand to her chest, Hisana concentrated on stifling the pain. The attacks had become erratic, and she—scared, frantic—was soon upheaving blood.

...

His expression was accusatory and hers was guilty.

"You're sick."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Hisana cringed. _Ah, here we go_. "I apologize, Byakuya-sama. I did not wish to worry you. You have done so much for me already. I couldn't possibly."

"You're my wife."

_Well yes, but_—

"Byakuya-sama, there's something, _someone_, I need to tell you about."

...

Today would've marked their sixth anniversary. _Had she lived_, Byakuya reminded himself.

If Hisana had lived, she would be here: across the table, in her usual seat. She would be smiling as she drank the sweet wine. But his wife was dead, and there was another (an imposter) in her place.

He studied the girl's face again. Quiet, reserved, she was eager to please. And her tireless, insignificant efforts unnerved him. Her face, her demeanor, even the low and raspy quality of her voice. Everything, _all of her_, was unsettling.

"Rukia," he broke the silence.

"Y-yes, nii-sama?"

"What do you remember of your life in Rukongai?"

For a moment, Rukia was speechless. Her background was never mentioned, a de factotaboo. She wasn't sure how to answer (which lie to use).

"Rukia, did you hear me?"

"Yes. I-I did. I apologize. What would nii-sama like to know?"

_Do you remember a shinigami on a bridge?_


End file.
